


perfect

by ahala



Category: Julius Caesar - Shakespeare, Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Homophobic Language, M/M, Secret Relationship, like actual baseball this fic drags out holy shit, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29916450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahala/pseuds/ahala
Summary: Rome's major league baseball team, the Eagles, face off against the Gallic Bears in order to go to the World Series.
Relationships: Julius Caesar/Servilia of the Junii, Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Kudos: 8





	perfect

“Do you think that you’ll even need a personal trainer to help stretch you out?” teased Antony, nudging Brutus with his shoulder. “Or do you think I did a good enough job of loosening you up last night?” 

Brutus scoffed in disgust. He attempted to look behind them nonchalantly at the nearly empty seats around, trying to gauge if anyone overheard. A family who had arrived early, the kids waving around souvenirs and shiny, unsigned baseballs took in the evening sun. A pair of women held their food close, under the watchful eyes of bold pigeons. A vendor walked up and down the steps advertising sugared fruits and wine, fried sausages and frozen lemonade. In the outfield, their teammates were stretching and visiting. On the diamond, the grounds crew put the finishing touches with blindingly white chalk. A trio carefully maneuvered the hose as they sprayed down the mound. No one overheard. “I thought I told you not to ever bring that up when we’re at work.”

“Maybe you do need a little more stretching; so tense.” Antony slapped Brutus’s bottom and jogged out to the outfield. Brutus watched him go, watched the back of his cherry red jersey. A figure in the distance waved to him, sitting in a clique of other players. Maybe it was Lucilius, the all-star first baseman, or Publius Crassus, the overly territorial outfielder. 

By the time he reached them, cleats gently crushing the well-manicured grass, he found he had lost interest in knowing, and instead sat himself down and started to stretch. Antony wasn’t wrong; Brutus’s shoulders were stiff, slowly relinquishing as he windmilled his arms, gently pulled the tendons, filling them with warmth by way of a resistance band. 

He moved from top to bottom, eventually laying down on the field and stretching his knees, glutes, adductors. He could hear the buzzing of the stadium lights above, the pop music playing on the speakers, the noise of the crowd as it grew. A wind kicked up from the west and brought with it the smell of kettle corn and beer, wet dirt and anticipation. It took him back to a time where the only anxiety he had in ballparks was due to the fear of being struck by a foul ball, or if the camera would catch Uncle Atticus making a fool of himself. 

A shadow came over his face, ruining the one acceptable thing about that painful hip flexor stretch. Brutus opened his eyes and saw the manager staring down at him.

“Game one out of potentially three,” said Caesar. “If we beat Gaul, then we’re against Parthia in the World Series.”

“I know,” Brutus said, irritated. He moved to stretch his other side. That endgame had been playing out in his dreams, his nightmares, ever since the postseason race began. “Parthia still has to beat Egypt,” he deflected whatever his manager was going to say with the very same mantra that had been playing through his own mind for the past week. The Egyptian baseball club was not, by any means, a good franchise, although they had found a way to make Rome sweat during the season. The team was owned by an eccentric teenager who hailed from a baseball dynasty but inherited none of the talented. His financial priorities were childish and his staffing choices ludicrous: his own sister managed the team. Whatever skill she might have had was usually wasted on the simple act of existing in such a club. It seemed like the team got as far as it did by luck, guerrilla baseball-playing, and money. 

“They did. Game three went into thirteen innings, and Parthia just now won.”

Brutus thought, wiped his hands on his pants and stood. “Alright.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to tell everybody in the locker room,” said Caesar, putting his hands on his hips. “We need to do more than just win this series. We need to crush Gaul, and we need to send a message to Parthia. I mean _massacre_ , a total shutout. I want no runs on that board,” he pointed to the scoreboard, where the Roman mascot, a cartoon eagle, danced in the Colosseum stands. “Everyone needs to put in their due diligence. You know what I’m asking, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Push for it and don’t get injured and don’t burn out.” Caesar gave a laugh. “I hope you had plenty of porridge this morning. When you’re done, collect Antony or Cassius and warm up in the bullpen. You’re starting.”

Brutus’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t hit a perfect game otherwise.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” said Caesar, scribbling something on his lineup card. He walked off, spitting tobacco juice onto the grass.

Brutus brushed the grass clippings off of himself and glanced over at Antony. He was in the far left corner, busy playing catch with an awe-struck kid sitting in the stands. _I’ll get Gaius_ , he decided and started the other way to the bullpen. 

* * *

The stands were growing more crowded, red attire still standing out even in the awkward dusk light. The dewy grass sparkled with the lights of advertisements for lawyers and garum and gladiatorial matches on the large scoreboard. Someone called to Brutus as he was walking by, a tone and pitch of voice that pierced the ambient murmur of the crowd. He glanced over at the stands, pausing, trying to seem nonchalant so as not to attract too many fans. The same person called him again and...there. His mother, wearing one of his jerseys over a dress shirt and slacks, pearls around her neck, her hair up in an intricate pile on top of her head. Brutus walked over to her. 

"Hello, Mother."

"Well-met, Marcus. Are you nervous?"

"This isn't my first postseason."

"It's your first one where you actually have to work. You inherited a dynasty of a team and now things aren't looking to be so easy this championship. I remember when Rome first moved you up from the Triple A team and it was just in the wake of all these greats who were now your teammates and mentors and..."

As she spoke, he noticed her clipboard on her lap with her fresh scorebook, and on it a plastic container of what seemed to be grilled chicken with bright green asparagus and wilted tomatoes on a bed of pasta. It was a much nicer meal than any regular spectator could get from the stands of fried, pickled, and frozen food. The V.I.P. pass around her neck then caught his eye. “You went up to the box?” He said. 

“Oh,” she glanced at him and followed the changing subject. “Yes, I figured I might as well since I got here so early. Are you hungry?” 

“No.”

“The asparagus is good,” Servilia went on as she opened the container, spearing a long stem. She took a bite for herself and then fed the rest to her son, who didn’t protest; it was good asparagus.

“See anyone in the booth?”

“Only the usual,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “Marcus Tullius just got here, though.”

Brutus’s heart sunk. “Was he not just at the Parthia game? _In_ Parthia?”

Servilia nodded. “You didn’t really think that he was going to miss the chance to cover this game, did you?” The crestfallen look on his face must have been obvious enough to rouse her to kindness. Servilia gave him a sympathetic smile. “Better be on your best behavior.”

“I’m sure he’ll have some words in his column tomorrow about you feeding me asparagus in front of the whole Colosseum.”

“It’s not the whole Colosseum, it is a nice seat by the first base line. And I won’t be ashamed of loving my sweet boy.”

Brutus scoffed. “I have to go.”

“Give me a kiss.”

He pecked her on the cheek and made his way back to the bullpen, paying no mind to the small congregation of fans holding out baseballs and markers to him.

* * *

Cassius was in the pen already, squatting in the shade and warming up one of the relief pitchers. Brutus wasn’t close to any of them. It seemed like the door into the bullpen was constantly revolving, and with the stresses of the regular and post seasons, there was no time to learn the names of the people he never interacted with. They stayed out of his way and did their jobs, and that was enough for him. 

The reliever conveniently went to take a water break, moving out of the way of the scuffed up mound and the tall pitcher who went to stand on it. Cassius straightened and tossed him the ball. “Big day,” he said. He straightened his helmet over his blonde hair, lowering his red mask as he squatted.

“Is it?” Brutus wound up and threw. 

* * *

“It’s a clear evening here at the home of Roman Eagles, the Colosseum. You can see there the pennants are moving a bit with a crosswind coming in from the northeast. There on the third base line, the Roman mascot is reminding us that yes, the augurs have determined that we’re good to play ball today. The Eagles have dominated this season, as usual, going forty-five wins, twelve loses and three games left to play. However, their losses come at a pretty heavy concentration from these last few weeks. Maybe enough to give the Bears a little bit of hope and the Eagles an idea of sacrificing their own mascot to Nike and Mercury. Ah, I am just kidding, of course. 

“Ambiorix is on deck right now, giving a few test swings before he faces off against the classic southpaw submarine, Marcus Brutus. There is his mother there, in the stands. The former softball Olympian, Servilia. She sports a career 2.96 ERA, which is nothing to sneeze at. Probably where her son got that bizarre pitching style. The mechanic for those submarines is completely opposite than how softball players throw their underhands. 

“Wow, look at those uniforms, I love that deep royal blue. I’m getting a note here… before the Gallic Bears became an official, league-recognized club team, their original colors were a cerulean sort of blue, much like the Owls’, and ended up changing to that navy color in order to be within regulations. Hmm, seems sort of biased, given that Carthage wears ‘scarlet’ and Rome wears ‘cherry’. Oh, it looks like Ambiorix is heading up to the plate now. 

“The crowd is electric tonight, already on their feet by the first pitch. The infield is looking a little nervous. Brutus with the pitch… ooh, high and tight. Ambiorix nearly doing a backbend to get out of the way of that one. Antony had to do a lot of work there. The home plate umpire identifies that as a very obvious ball one. A very clear message from Brutus right out of the gate: look out. Ambiorix straightens his helmet and bears down. I guess it’s going to be that kind of game, folks.

“Antony signals. Brutus shakes it off. Antony tries again. Brutus doesn’t seem to buy it. He winds up and...a fastball, right down the line. Dips a bit low in the strike zone, but the ump gives strike one. Brutus has one of the lowest pitching stances in the entire league despite being quite tall. I guess a little allowance from the officials is fair. Our speedometer clocked that one at one hundred sixty kilometres per hour. Hang in there, Ambiorix. Antony signals and Brutus seems to like it. Here’s the pitch...seems like a curveball, Ambiorix makes contact. That one is high and far, but the bleacher creatures do not seem convinced by any home run possibility. Sextus is there, Publius Crassus is charging right from centerfield, he’s calling it his, and it’s caught. I can see him laughing from here. 

“I don’t think the tension radiating from the mound to home plate has reached the outfield yet. One out, top of the first. Indutiomarus is up to bat next…”

* * *

  
  


Antony shifted his pants as he stood up to toss a clean ball back to Brutus. Sweat ran down his back, despite it only being the fifth inning. Commius strode up to the plate, looking Antony up and down with an unamused glance. 

“What are the odds that I get a nice little walk-off home run off your boy,” he asked mildly, tapping the home plate with the waxy wooden end of his bat. 

Antony squated, leaning one of his legs out to give himself a bit more balance as the umpire leaned on his back. “Aren’t you 0 for 4?”

“You haven’t been hitting so well lately either.”

“You’re right. I guess I’ve just been too focused on fucking your mother and your father.”

“Fellas,” warned the umpire.

On the mound, Brutus dropped the rosin bag and put his glove back on. He rubbed one of his cleats into the dirt and then took his stance. He wound up, falling low as his arm swept just above the sunset-colored dirt, releasing the ball low right to Antony’s glove with a satisfying _snap_. Antony threw it back. He signalled between his legs, making signs with his fingers. Brutus straightened his hat in a response. He threw and Commius swung hard, so hard that Antony could hear it whizzing through the air, such a volatile and erratic swing that he was sure Commius was going to let it go flying into the stands.

Antony caught the ball and didn’t hide his smile as he stood and threw it back to Brutus. Another strike. The speedometer on the scoreboard read eighty-eight kilometers per hour, slow as a lion swaggering down to the home plate. The third pitch left Brutus’s dry fingers with an oppressive speed before the spin dragged it back to another crawl. When Commius swung, he lost his balance and sunk to his knee.

The umpire signalled the third and final strike. The crowd cheered loudly. 

“I guess the odds were...zero, then,” said Antony, snickering as he threw the ball down the third base line. Commius’s lip curled. He threw his bat down, and then his helmet as well. Antony flinched, but refused to step down from him. Boldly, Antony tossed his own face mask aside.

“Fucking queer,” Commius spat. The crowd, picking up on the hostility and the potential for a bench-clearing brawl, began to cheer. Antony could see the infield starting to jog inward to the home plate. 

“Boys, let’s break it up, come on!” said the umpire.

They both ignored him. “Me being a fag doesn’t make you any less of a loser.”

That was enough for Commius, who threw a rageful punch, but the infield was already there, crowding around. Someone yanked Antony back before the hit could land, but not so soon that Antony couldn't lash out with an honest kick. Publius Crassus flew in suddenly, in a red fury, screaming profanity at Commius, Lucilius at his heels to keep him from escalating the altercation. The dugouts were empty, and suddenly there was a crowd of pushing and shuffling, some smaller skirmishes breaking out in clouds of dust, umpires yelling out ejections, players holding each other back. Even the bullpens had made their way all the way down to home plate. Publius Cornelius had Caesar in a bear hug to keep him from swinging at Vercingetorix, or the umpires, or anyone he quite felt like lashing out at. The crowd was on their feet, cheering on the outburst even as it was slowly, tensely beginning to disperse.

“Are you okay?” It was Brutus behind him, still holding him as tight as he did when he yanked him out of the way of Commius’ fists.

“Yeah, I’m cool,” he said, gently wriggling out of Brutus’s grip, very suddenly remembering the crowd of forty-thousand.

“What did he say to you?”

“Called me a queer.” 

Brutus gave him a bewildered look. “That’s it?”

“The fight was more about what I said to him than what he said to me.”

The relief pitchers, benchwarmers, and outfielders all began to drift back to where they belonged. The umpires, who had been in a group, their heads together and discussing what had happened, adjourned as well, stating that the last play still stood, the only ejections being Commius and Caesar, who was spitting mad for it and still screaming in the umpires’ faces.

Steadily, the fever pitch was quelled to a simmering boil as the atmosphere shifted for the bottom half of the inning. 

* * *

“Still no score as we go into the top of the seventh inning, but that isn’t any indication of a dull game here at the Colosseum. The local time here in Rome is 10:37 p.m. and both the Bears and Eagles are looking like they can feel it. The crowd, on the other hand, is still very much invested in this dirty fight. There are as many empty seats as there were when the game started at six this evening. 

“It looks like Caesar is sending Marcus Brutus out to the mound _again_. He’s warming up on the mound with Marcus Antonius catching. His pitches are sharp, but he seems like he’s really hurting. I’m getting a note here...one of our sources has just let us know that he was seen icing and taping up bloody fingers between innings. That’s the problem with those drastically low underhand pitches. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been scraping his hand on the mound every few pitches. I think I heard somewhere that his hand usually fluctuates between being six to ten centimeters above the mound, depending on the pitch. A very small margin for getting scraped up. It will be very interesting to see how this plays out this inning.

“In other news, the Founders are lining up down by the third base line for their traditional race. What a classic. In no other place can you find giant-headed mascots of Rome’s national heroes strengthening their legacies through a good, old-fashioned footrace. There, they’re all lined up, Poplicola, Lucius Brutus, Aeneas, and Romulus. Alright, and they’re off with the start pistol. I’m getting a note here… apparently Lucretia was one of the candidates for the first Founders Race when this tradition started about half a century before, but the Major League Board cut her from the team before the mascot could ever be featured for fear of being too impious to Rome’s national history…” 

* * *

He was hurting. Brutus couldn't remember if he had ever pitched a full game, not in the Major League, not in Triple A, not in college, not in Little League. His shoulder was burning, and he had already received a no-pitch call after the ball slipped on the bandages on his fingers. _He_ was slipping. His focus, strength, consistency were all struggling. 

“Just get through it,” he murmured to himself as he bent down to rosin his soaking hands. The powder burned the scratches on his fingers. _Just get through it_ , he thought again with frustration. _And get through tomorrow, and the day after, and the series after_. 

Brutus straightened and took a breath, adjusting his fingers on the ball to form the pitch Antony was asking for. He wound up, leg stretching up before flinging down and out in a deep lunge, his arm flinging around to the front where he released the ball. 

As soon as it left his fingers, he knew it was wrong. Not enough speed, not enough velocity. He threw an even, one hundred twenty-five kilometer per hour pitch right to the center of the strike zone.

The bat cracked and the ball went sailing up into the air, as small and bright as the stars in the night sky blotted out by the stadium lights. The stadium was silent, save for the few Gauls that had braved the ferociousness of Roman sports fans and attended the game. Brutus turned and watched it fly, watched the outfielders charge for it, kicking up clumps of pristine grass with their cleats. Publius Crassus leapt as if he were performing a high jump, trying to reach up to the wall, but the ball flew even longer, landing deep in the stands. Still, as quickly as it was in the stands, it was back out onto the field, having been rejected by the fans. Even a lucrative postseason home run ball had no value in the Colosseum if it was hit by a Gaul. 

As Brutus turned back to face home plate, he saw Cato, the pitching coach, jog out from the dugout in Caesar’s stead. Antony ran up the line to join the meeting. The disbelief was painfully evident on his face.

“Caesar wants you out,” said Cato. “Unless you want to stay in and exhaust yourself.”

There was no point in staying after ruining his streak, especially when the expectation was that try again for perfection at game two. “Is he starting me tomorrow?”

Cato, wiry and grave, gave him the most sympathetic shrug he could muster. “Wasn’t my choice, unfortunately. I do not believe in working you until you break.”

“No,” said Brutus, breathing hotly, his anger about to boil out of him. “No, I want to do this. I’m coming out now.”

“Good lad, alright,” he deadpanned. Cato turned to the bullpen and gestured for the relief pitcher to head to the mound. Antony patted Brutus with his mitt before the trio dispersed, Brutus heading to the dugout to the solemn applause of the crowd.

“You almost had it, M.J.,” said Publius Crassus. Brutus ignored him, disappearing to the locker room for ice and medication. 

* * *

“An extremely tense situation as we head into the bottom of the ninth with the Eagles getting ready to make their final attempt to win game one of this series. Caesar, from the ejection void, has switched the batting line-up. Looks like Publius Crassus is batting first, and Antonius after him. He’s a slugger in his own right, usually batting _fourth_ in the lineup, but he’s played his part in this Eagles slump, having gone one for three at his last at-bats. Let’s see what he can do with the last three outs of the game.”

* * *

Antony took a deep breath, taking a stretch, spitting into the dirt, kicking dust off of the plate, anything he could do to hold onto those last moments before either letting everyone down or doing _something_. During the brief break, he had sprinted to the little shrine to Mercury and begged the priest there to bless his bat, or say some magic prayer. The best he could do in the small time was sprinkle sacrificial bull’s blood on the grip. 

At the time, Antony thanked him profusely, but now he wasn’t sure about it. Maybe he would have felt better if he were a more pious man. 

He took his stance in the batter’s box, taking a breath as he tightened his grip. Publius Crassus was looking antsy on first base, where he had managed to acquire with masterful base running and a very bad bunt. The pitcher wound up and pitched to him. In a split second, he saw it was coming towards him, about to make contact with his shoulder. Revenge for the scrap with Commius. Antony knew he could either take the hit and go to first base automatically, or he could try his Mercury’s luck. Quickly, he fell to the dirt, and the ball sailed over him. It was a selfish decision, and he knew it as soon as he did it. It was hubris, shame, and a hefty fine if he was unlucky. It was kleos if he was lucky. Too late to go back now.

The umpire gestured that the pitch was a ball. “You alright, son?”

“Yeah,” said Antony, picking himself back up. His heart nearly stopped as he searched for Publius Crassus, and let out a breath of relief when he saw that he hadn’t attempted a steal. The crowd began to rally, picking up on his bold attempt. His teammates were all standing against the railing of the dugout. 

The pitcher threw the ball and this time, Antony swung. He made contact and the ball whizzed down the third base line. Fans ducked and dodged out of the way before diving for the ball. Antony let out a breath. He hit something. It was doable. 

Another pitch. He hit it again. That time, more leverage made it shoot up, a prime shot of home run material, though just within foul territory once more. 

Another pitch. Antony swung and met air. The umpire called a strike. “Okay,” Antony muttered. “Two strikes. Okay. Alright.”

The crowd was electric, almost overwhelmingly so. The team had their rally caps on. Caesar’s face was peeking between two players as he dared to return to the dugout to see what would happen. Even Brutus, his shoulder covered in ice, was leaning on the railing beside Lucilius. 

The pitcher wound up and threw. Antony took a step and swung, throwing the strength of his whole body into his attempt. The bat and ball connected. The ball flew out, up into the sky. The outfielders were scrambling, a section of the crowd was raising up above the others to receive it. It was heading right to his last foul ball. He didn’t even bother to throw his bat as he stood and watched to see which side of the boundary it ended up on. The crowd erupted into cheers, and the team poured out from the dugout.

The ball was fair. 

Antony flipped his bat high and began to strut around the bases, just barely reaching a jog once he passed Commius at first base, who he gave a wink to. Fireworks erupted in the sky, cracking and booming with bright red. The team was waiting at home plate for him, where he took a giant leap onto the plate before skittishly darting out of the way of a cooler of water. They bullied him off of the field, all throwing ice cubes, ripping his jersey and undershirt off of him, pushing him around and tackling one another, much to Caesar’s insistence that they save the physical recklessness for after they won the championship. With all the celebration, they all knew that the manager was right, that such a labor was only one of many more to come within the next forty-eight hours. 

The anxiety and pressure was already starting to build again.

* * *

Brutus roused as he felt something hard against his arm. He lifted his head from the little pillow shoved between himself and the airplane wall. 

“Your ice packs were slipping,” said Antony once he noticed that Brutus was staring at him. He slipped one of the packs under the bandage again, pulling it taut over the pack.

“Thanks.” His voice was almost silent under the steady drone of the engines, his lips almost unreadable in the dark plane. 

“They’re just ice packs.”

“Well, thanks for the game, then.”

“I should thank you, too.”

Brutus scoffed. “I fucked up.”

“You pitched six perfect innings on your own,” Antony nudged his thigh. “You know, no one expects you to actually pitch a whole perfect game, especially after today. Not even Caesar.”

“I expect me to.”

“Well,” said Antony, seeming like he wanted to say more, but was too tired to try and break through a brick wall. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Stop getting in fights with everyone and maybe I’ll be at less of a risk to get hurt.”

“You like rescuing me.”

“Go to sleep.” 

Antony glanced over across the aisle, seeing that Cato was passed out, as were any people within immediate eyeshot. He leaned over quickly and kissed Brutus’s cheek. He felt Brutus startle and pull away to lean back in, gripping Antony's hair, and kiss his lips for just longer than a moment before he pushed him away roughly. Antony laughed as he moved back into his own seat. Brutus kicked at him with his socked feet to get him to quiet, which just prompted Antony to laugh harder.

“Shut the fuck up!” called someone from a few rows behind them, maybe Titus Labienus. Antony quieted, Brutus already reticent as he settled back against the wall, looking outside the window at the Italian countryside below and the stars above. Antony pulled some of the blanket over and leaned back, trying to calm his simmering nerves enough to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> ok a couple of things, i modelled brutus's pitching style after the submarine god, [shunsuke watanabe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AzxVad81Gz8), and antony's batting after [ken griffey jr.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXrgennGEho) also [freddie freeman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRVTkcPlgGs) is lucilius personified. also also this au is partially thanks to tunglr user marcvs-antonivs's [baseball au art](https://marcvs-antonivs.tumblr.com/post/644618797610860545/marcvs-antonivs-oh-my-god-its-baseball-spring) which inspired me to write this.


End file.
